FABLES OF FLORA. 
Home, to his own loved cottage door, 
The dying vine he gently bore; 
It lived and grew. 
The sun shone on it, till it spread 
Its green leaves o’er the young boy’s head, 
And on his forehead perfumes shed, 
Freshened with dew. 
\ ears passed. Its strong green arms upheld 
The cottage roof. Its rich leaves swelled 
Toward the blue skies ; 
It wrapped the breezes in its breast, 
And, when the inmates sank to rest, 
They heard them singing in their nest 
Soft lullabies. 
The birds beneath the cottage eaves, 
O’ershadowed by the thick green leaves, 
Prepared their shrines; 
’T was pleasant, at the close of day, 
To see them in the reddening ray, 
And hear their joyous roundelay 
Amid the vines. 
An old man, silver-haired and lame, 
Beneath the vine-wreathed cottage came; 
He loved its shade. 
The soft leaves fanned his fevered brow; 
‘ O, beautiful to me art thou, 
Green vine! ’ he said. ‘ My pity now 
Is well repaid! ’ 
